Domeric IX

"There are definitely longships in the strait," reported the captain of Rosedancer, the head ship of the squadron Paxter Redwyne sent forward to scout. A cautious man was Paxter Redwyne. He came up the coast with eighty-some war galleys, having left those too damaged by the storms to press on back at the Shield Islands. It'd been calm lately, and Domeric was hoping their luck would hold.

Greatjon Umber slammed one meaty fist as large as a ham into the palm of his other hand, looking positively hungry. Great, he could take point. Of the ten thousand swords Domeric brought down from the Golden Tooth, he'd lost a little over two hundred dead and thrice that many sick or wounded. Even so, Lord Paxter's decks could accommodate at most two thousand armed fighters, which Dom supposed might be called marines in another life. He picked the ones best at swimming and ditching their gear, leaving the rest to clear the coast down to the Banefort.

"I like this not at all, my lords," Redwyne stated. He was thin and balding, with stooped shoulders that made him look like he spent his days slouching at a desk, but that couldn't be true. Could it? Umber was about to make a slick comment, but Dom talked over him.

"We've got to take the fight to them, Lord Paxter. They've lost a lot of men fighting on land, and as far as we know, the storms have been no kinder to them than to us. King Stannis charged me with making an end to this rebellion, and this I mean to do. We sail with the morning tide."

The Greatjon slapped him on the back hard enough to bruise, and Arya's wolf howled, which set the men to howling in imitation.

***

"They're running," Dom said simply. Fair Isle was in sight after two days at sea, and they sighted enemy sails on the horizon. Drums upon the ships beat out a pursuit cadence, and the oarsmen bent their backs to propel them forward. Each of these galleys had at least eighty oars, many a hundred or more, straight centipede legs chopping water. There wasn't much of a breeze, so it was about all they had.

"Running into the strait," Lord Paxter pointed out from the quarterdeck. They were aboard his flagship, the galleass Arbor Queen. It was a fine ship, if Domeric said so himself, painted luxuriously in the color of a wine-dark sea.

"Mayhaps they'll offer battle there," Alesander suggested.

"War at sea is not like war on land, Ser," Lord Paxter replied. "Your knights might withdraw and wheel for another charge. Commands given on the water can seldom be taken back. Once the hawk is loosed, it's loosed. The gods have their vote as well. Wind and tides take you where they will. I say they want us to follow, which I like not at all. This was the place our new king trapped and destroyed the Iron Fleet. Might be they want vengeance for that."

Domeric considered his words seriously. "Then what do you propose? I am the Warden of the West, but you are captain of your own ship, and admiral of this fleet. In these matters I will defer to you."

The slight man smiled. "Then you have better sense than most. Let a small pursuit squadron, the ships carrying the giant Northman and his men, say, be detached. We remain here in open water and wait. I'll send a scout to sail around the island. The most obvious ploy would be to lure us into the strait, then take us in the rear with ships they've concealed for that purpose. It was how King Stannis trapped them the first time."

Makes sense. Dom nodded his assent. With flags and horns and shouts, they sent some galleys after those longboats, which proved terribly wise, as the whole damned Iron Fleet showed itself shortly. Near as many vessels as their own emerged from behind the island, no doubt planning to swing like a hinge and trap them in the Strait, just as Lord Paxter suggested. Domeric was beginning to like the man, though some of his Northern lords muttered over the caution.

"I assume you want to join battle," said Lord Paxter calmly. Though his voice was calm, he looked to be nervously counting sails.

"You assume correctly, my lord. General Quarters!"

Redwyne blinked. "General what?"

Domeric sighed. "Battle speed, bring us to them."

This, at least, Lord Paxter understood. Their fleet was arrayed in three even lines in open sea with plenty of room to maneuver. The iron men seemed a bit more strung out as they rounded the island. There was much furious activity on their decks, and Domeric marked the shine of metal. Most of them wore armor.

Stolen story; please report.

The Arbor Queen was in the third line, so battle was joined well before they could play their part. Arrow fire was exchanged, and ships rammed, bunched up, and scraped side by side, snapping oars and tearing deep rents in the oaken hulls. They paused their advance to fish a few of their men out of the water. From where Domeric stood, it was nothing but a chaotic collision between two clumps of wooden turtles. Who was winning? Who could say?

As they drifted closer, Paxter spotted a lone enemy ship that had only just managed to extricate itself from the melee. With a confident wave of his hand, he bid the drummer beat the cadence for ramming speed, and their oarsmen accelerated. With a great shock, the Arbor Queen managed a perfect ram strike amidships. The Ironborn ship began sinking rapidly as the oarsmen of the Arbor Queen reversed their strokes to disentangle themselves from the dying hulk. Just as it looked like they were clear, another galley, smaller than the great galleas, pulled up on their port side.

Huh. Domeric was so focused on what was in front of him that he hadn't noticed their approach. Still, it was convenient. He drew his red sword.

"How nice of them to come to us instead of making us chase!"

The oarsmen saved what oars they could, but a few were caught and snapped before they could be pulled up. It was a good long minute as the two vessels drifted closer. Once they were close enough, Domeric leapt over the gunwale and landed right on the forecastle of the enemy ship. Most of the iron men were in mail, and that might as well have been sheer silk for all the good it did them. His red sword of Valyrian steel danced as nimbly as a needle, touching here and there and everywhere. It only required a touch, and every touch left more red than it found.

In two blinks, the deck was clear of foes. Al, Elia, Arya, and Brad, with a dozen more men-at-arms besides, were fast behind, flooding down from the higher deck of the Arbor Queen. The sea was oddly still, and the deck firm beneath his feet, though slick with blood and spray. There was a horn blast and a cry, and the iron men abandoned their oars to take up weapons and repel boarders.

That's right, come to me, come to me! Oh, and how they came! With little flicks of his red razor, he cut them down in ones and twos and threes. This was butchery and grace. He'd never felt so fast. One man raised a shield to catch a slash of his, but it bought him only a second more of life. He-

He slipped and fell, the back of his head bouncing off the deck, sending a shock of numbness down his limbs and throwing off his equilibrium. The iron man stood over him, axe raised to cleave him in two...

"Ser!" Little Bradamar Frey, very big and strong for a boy his age, caught the axe blow and turned it with his short sword. The iron man bashed the squire with the iron rim of his shield, snorting contemptuously. It knocked the boy senseless, and he tumbled over the gunwale. There was a splash and a very girlish scream.

"Brad!" shrieked Arya Stark.

The iron axeman stood there for a second, admiring his work. That second was all Dom needed to shake off the dizziness, and with a rising slash, he opened the bastard, groin first.

Elia had to grab Arya to keep her from diving after Brad, and a roar of rage went up. Such reavers as remained were rapidly cut down. Meanwhile, Dom shook the last bit of vertigo out and peered over the side, looking for his squire in the drink.

For ten long seconds, there was nothing, and Dom started ditching his gear, fearing the boy had gone down too concussed to ditch his. On second eleven, they spotted some red in the water, and on second twelve his squire surfaced. Alesander was quickest to throw out a line. When they pulled him out, he had a nasty bump that bled a little, but he otherwise seemed fine.

"There will be a maester on Fair Isle," Domeric promised. "It doesn't look like it's bleeding badly, but we need to clean it well."

Arya spent the rest of the battle fussing over Brad, but it didn't end up mattering. Positioned as they were, the Iron fleet was trapped between them and the island, with nowhere to go. Not a single one escaped. Their trap ended up trapping them. There was a small Ironborn garrison at Faircastle, but they yielded quick enough when they saw the Bolton banners.

How convenient, Domeric would sacrifice them last.